22 APRIL 1967, SATURDAY
He woke to a large face with a thick jawline. It was handsome, with light blue eyes and flared nostrils. It smiled and blinked at him.
“About time you woke,” said the man, but not in German. Hungarian. “Gerhard was worried you’d die in his bed. That would be bad luck. He’d have to throw the damn thing out!”
“Is it night yet?”
“Listen to you- Is it night? You’ve been in and out for four days. We got you up enough to put some food in you yesterday, but I imagine you’re still pretty hungry.”
“You’re the doctor?”
“Andras Simonyi. Gerhard said you’re Hungarian. You speak it, but you’re no Magyar. Where are you from?”
“What happened to me?”
The doctor paused. “I don’t know. It’s possible you had a stroke. Give me your left hand.”
“A stroke?”
“A minor one, if one at all. Give me your left hand.”
It took some effort, but Brano was able to pull his hand from under the sheets and give it to the doctor.
“Make a fist.”
Though he could move his fingers a little, a fist was impossible.
“That’s better than I expected. I can’t say how much you’ll recover, but you haven’t done badly so far. How’s your memory?”
Brano considered that. “It was bad at first, but it’s come back.”
“All of it?”
“Almost all.”
The doctor nodded, then took Brano’s pulse and checked the dilation of his pupils. He seemed satisfied as he stood up. “There’s a robe over there with your clothes. Gerhard was good enough to clean them. Come out and join us. Let us know if you need some help.”
Brano said, “ Koszonom.” Thank you.
Once the doctor was gone, he slowly raised himself into a sitting position, feet just above the rug. He was naked, and he smelled sour, as if lake water had festered inside him. When he touched his face he felt a beard. His left side was still numb, but he was able to stand and make hesitant steps to the chair where his clean, folded clothes lay.
His memory, over the last four days of drifting in and out of sleep, had begun with a word from a dream- zbrka. Then other details followed, slowly filling him, telling him who he was, and why he was in Austria. He knew he had killed a man who had tried to kill him, and he remembered having the presence of mind, after shooting the man, not to run to the woman nor to the Westbahnhof, which was close to the restaurant. He’d instead walked quickly through the Liebengaste’s kitchen, past confused cooks, into an alley, with the dead man’s wallet and gun stuffed in a pocket. He’d taken a tram south to the Sudbahnhof and boarded the first departing train, a slow regional with a rusting shell.
He remembered that he was sweating then, a spectacle for the prim suburban Viennese with their shopping bags and children. When the conductor arrived, he bought passage all the way down the line to Payerbach- Reichenau but instead got out at Neunkirchen. While waiting for the next train, he read a schedule he’d gotten from a somber man behind the ticket window, then went through the dead man’s wallet. He found the schillings and a driver’s license under the name of Karl Bertelsmann. He put the money in his pocket, then dumped the rest into a trash can. That’s when he noticed his shoe. He used his handkerchief to wipe the blood off of it.
He remembered taking the westward line to Murzzuschlag, where the station bar was closed, and he paced the empty platform for hours as the sun set, wishing he had a heavier coat and trying not to wish for anything else. When he failed, it was her voice that came to him. Dragi, where you are going? The headache returned, pressing sharply behind his trembling right eye.
By the time his eastbound connection arrived, he was sneezing.
In the warmth of the full train, he became inexplicably dizzy. He worried that he would be recognized, but around him were old women who dozed, and when they woke they chose not to look at him at all. The only life in the car was a compartment of three drunk soldiers, howling into the night. One of the old women cracked her eyes at the sound, and he smiled and shrugged. She closed her eyes.
At Wallern im Burgenland, two stops short of Hungary, a soldier with a rifle smoked under fluorescent lights. He glanced up as Brano helped an old woman down, tensing his throat to suffocate a cough. Pain crackled through his skull.
He made the last bus to Apetlon as the station clock told him it was midnight. He and a smiling old man were the only ones on it.
From Apetlon he had walked, trying to retrace his path from months ago across the wet grass, but it was difficult; his memory was spotty. The headache surged again from the back of his head, and he found himself stumbling. But there was only one desire in him by then, to leave this country and return to a place where he understood the rules.
He stopped once when the sound of barking dogs reached him. He waited, sinking into earth that had become mud. His headache had ebbed, but when it started again, his left leg became weak; his face tingled.
He fell sometimes, rising with mud-colored hands. In spots he sank into brackish, cold water or stumbled over sharp reeds, and by the time he reached a marsh he thought might be the one he was looking for, he was soaked by cold water and sweat.
Then he stepped into the water.
His memory, perhaps out of revulsion, would not take him further.
Old Gerhard, boiling vegetables in a pot, was relieved there would be no deaths in his house. Dr. Simonyi was curious. He complimented Brano on his admirable German and Hungarian. “But what is your native tongue?”
Brano sipped hot tea. “ Mowi po polsku.”
The doctor frowned, and Gerhard leaned forward. “What was that?”
“Polish. My language.”
“You know,” said the doctor, “we’re both familiar with your situation. I left Hungary in “fifty-six, and Gerhard here has a soft spot for immigrants. Always has.”
“Beginning with this man,” said Gerhard.
“The point is, we’re not going to hand you over to the police. You don’t have to be shy.”
Brano nodded. “I appreciate everything. But really, I can’t remember much.”
The doctor sighed, either because he expected this or because he didn’t believe it.
“What about your name?” asked Gerhard.
“I assume you know it already,” said Brano. “My passport is in my jacket.”
The doctor smiled. “And we also know your native language isn’t Polish.”
“It’s my family’s language. So I wasn’t lying.”
“You were just skirting around the truth.”
Brano shrugged.
“Listen,” said the doctor, lowering his voice. “I imagine I have some idea what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking you want to get out of here. But that’s just paranoia, Brano. The best thing you can do for yourself now is to stay here. You understand?”
The doctor’s eyes seemed to be saying something more. Or maybe they were just asking to be trusted. He tapped the table with a flat hand-a wedding ring clicked. “Well, I suppose I should get back home. You can take care of our new friend?”
“Of course,” said Gerhard as he placed boiled carrots and potatoes on a plate. “No more grease, like you said.”
“Thanks again,” said Brano.
“My pleasure.’ The doctor and Brano shook hands, and Gerhard walked Simonyi out. Brano sipped his tea while they whispered by the front door. By the time the old man returned, he was finished eating, and he pushed
